


Jimin's Prime

by doomingdawn



Series: Slave to the Rhythm [2]
Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Escort Service, Established Relationship, Families of Choice, Gay, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Multi, POV Character of Color, POV First Person, POV Male Character, Porn With Plot, Prostitution, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-01 19:40:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8635567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomingdawn/pseuds/doomingdawn
Summary: Park Jimin lives an alternate lifestyle. His polyamorous relationship is challenged not by his newfound confidence as a sex worker, but rather because of shifting personal dynamics and challenging clients. The eye of the storm is eerie; this wheel is on fire.





	1. Tumor

**Author's Note:**

> Jimin views this section of his life as optional or less than meaningful. That doesn't mean it's true.

My mother’s been dead for a month. The burdens of negativity in my life are only those not actively policing my thoughts. The distant presence of my evil father and my difficult past can be alleviated without closure. Conclusion is what so many of us crave, but now that my parent is gone, my immediate surroundings are most important. My love life, however complex or atypical it may be, is comfortably set in stone. I am connected with two men. Although I may fear the future complications of this arrangement, it is not as rigid as I might make it sound. The way Seokjin entered my life was just as coincidental and natural as Yoongi’s arrival was. As long as the fact that the latter was first never puts a strain on our love, and as long as the former can accept my profession, it may remain a true triangle. Three points and three sides. 

We no longer look for shelter and heat, and food and softness. As a species. We don’t leave our homes to gather, look to others to hunt. We are suspended here, in fear. In anxiety. We question our overlords pointlessly, and we shy away from the consequences and collapses of technology. The weak points in the earth rise like molten lava but we settle in lechery and revel in sin. Gluttony and sloth, supply and demand. We get what we want. We avoid optical illusions and combat confusion in an echo chamber of ego and libido. We don’t worry about the end. A woman walked up to me at the grocery store yesterday. Here I am, my ears covered in metallic studs, my hair a glowing warmth, my body shamelessly, unabashedly thick. She decided to comment on my presentation. I was _uncouth._ To be wearing such tight pants with my fat body; it really was a crime. She used the word happenstance in her aversion. I berated her slyly, read her for filth. I wanted to know why she tried so hard, why she didn’t cut the fat out of her argument. Why she bothered to waste her breath on a stranger.

This is the beginning of the redundant story that never had to be told. This is the passion of my pen and not the necessity of my mind. My magic might allow for the finer refinement of my own self—to chisel at my statuesque figure and to find problems wherever—but these tales are elective nonetheless. This is the effective end of an era, and the start of the rest of my life. Coming of age, I am an adult tried and true. It is only within the soothing absence of resource scarcity that my focus shifts toward finding direction. Enjoying a surplus, spoiling myself. Settling into a standard, carrying that weight well. Coping with change and becoming an individual. Past the bridge, I’ve entered the city at noon. My gate has descended, denouncing retreat and defining excess. My hands are bound and I am on my knees, a silver spoon on my tongue, face down. I’m slapped and beaten and I like it. I am in the prime of my existence.


	2. Just Desserts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Namjoon returns to the house for a second round and suffers from Jimin’s vengeance. Jungkook and Taehyung are team players.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dubious (or nonexistent) consent returns.

I kept turning him down, but he always came around. That try-hard rapper, the wannabe gangster. The guy who ripped me off, the guy who gave me my new lover. Without meaning to, he changed my life for the better. But now, I wanted it. His testicles in the palm of my hand. Karma on speed dial, his ego on lockdown. The notification kept popping up on my phone; a new message on my work email. Annoying, obnoxious. He’ll use credit this time. He just wants a piece of this ass. Pathetic. I smiled real wide and hopped off my bed, still driven by the adrenaline of wanting to punch that old woman from the grocery store in her face. I have no time to pass judgement unto others, because those who have already personally wronged me cannot think they have incurred the wrath of anyone less than a demigod. 

My own awareness, now a cocky persuasion. It was all fun and games. My heart was warm, my chest was beating. I crossed the hallway and opened the door without knocking, seeing Jungkook’s bare ass high in the air as he mounted his boyfriend’s shivering body. I told these two I would tolerate a threesome with them sometime soon. Maybe I’ll make it, maybe I won’t. Regardless, Taehyung’s grateful and familiar enough to not whine when the taller unsheathes himself, turning around with wide eyes and a surprised grin. I don’t skip a beat, wetting my lips, looking him over, and humming like a siren on her maiden voyage. “Wanna make some money?”

An hour later, we were ready. My excited companion wore absolutely nothing but a ski mask, hidden in my closet. I was in a loose set of pastel pink briefs, laid out across my bed. Dragging the hand not supporting the weight of my head across the surface, I grasped at the blanket as Yoongi let my prey inside of my room, winking at me as he closed the door. Their voices still lingered as if they had shared friendly dialogue on the way here. Yoongi knew I had a plan. Of course he did. The money was upfront this time, scanned and all, but it takes more than that for forgiveness. Namjoon used me under false pretenses, told me lies and left me shaken. His voice was dark. It could have curdled milk in my stomach. “Hey, baby. Miss me?”

I climbed onto my knees and waved him over to the mattress I sat up on, wrapping the short musculature of my upper limbs around his shoulders and placing a kiss against the corner of his lips. He shot back, wanting more, his tongue looking for mine as it stuck beneath my upper teeth and traced the roof of my mouth. Pulling away with a pop, I shook my head and offered a childish whine, convincing him, through innocence, that I knew the terrible best. My fingers flung back as I rubbed his shoulders, grunting and looking for knots of stress. “Don’t you want something different? Start with a massage, Daddy?”

That word never grew on me, but it melted his patience like ice cream under the black hole sun; his shirt was gone, his pants were too, and he was naked, climbing across my bed, settling there. I felt it in my stomach then. This was mean. I was about to do something pointed, savage, but this revenge was a dish best served cold. I took my underwear off and ran my smooth shaft along his forearm to excite and relax, that grin disarming his judgement as I opened the bedside drawer and stared at my display of equipment. Grabbing a bottle of lubricant, I tossed it down by his rear and acted as if it were my foot hitting a pillow, giggling immediately afterward. I grabbed fuzzy handcuffs, both comfortable and impossible to break, and snapped them onto his unified wrists after coercing both hands to the center of his back with palms of my own.

He seemed alarmed but didn’t say anything when I caressed the flesh beneath his thumbs, but then I pressed my plump ass flat against the back of his head, holding him down. Jungkook rushed out of the closet and jumped onto the bed, forcing the elder’s spread legs wide and quickly slicking his own tool. I sat back and applied pressure, keeping our target stationary. This is what he paid for, this is what he got. Namjoon wanted to get off, he asked for sex, and he agreed to something different. That lubricant was proof: I might fight fire with fire, an old flavor of equality, but I’m not overly cruel. I just get mine, and I get mine good. Life is too short to think twice, or to question what comes naturally. Justice hurts.

Nothing was more satisfying than the scream which fell from his lips upon being filled. The hung teenager pushed himself entirely inside of that tight, potentially virginal pucker, letting out an obnoxiously deep moan. Thoughtlessly disguising his identity and spoiling himself, too. Jungkook had become a natural at his job, and clearly a talented top. Oh, those roars emerging from his bitch. Namjoon hated it and loved it, too. He was being torn apart, stretched amazingly. My thighs, monstrous and stronger than anyone’s arms, wrapped around his neck and kept his head in place, still facing my partner in crime. My hands groped the shoulder-blades beneath me as I smiled and spoke over Namjoon’s contradictory mantra of _no_ and _yes_.

“You like it young in your ass, don’t you Daddy?” I was taunting him now, throbbing hard myself at the sight. It wasn’t just because of Jungkook’s beautifully slender frame bouncing, or the whiteness around his length pumping in and out of our client. I wasn’t erect from my dear friend’s moans or musculature, or the way he looked up at me from beneath that mask, those eyes wanting the approval my involuntary smile did provide. It was this. This surprise. This force, this retaliation. Namjoon crumbled, his body conceding as he laid there and took it, his groans particularly whorish. Jungkook had his orgasm inside of the man, and I felt the warmth in my own crotch spurting, white ribbons shooting across the submitter’s back.

He ripped the mask off, tossed it into my closet, and ran out of the room, no doubt securing himself within his own private shower by the time I tore the handcuffs off. I’d blow him for that, later. Do something they’d like. I flipped Namjoon onto his back and moved down to straddle his thighs, his untouched girth quivering and leaking. “Guess you wouldn’t have agreed to a surprise if you knew it would’ve been that, huh? I wouldn’t have agreed to get fucked by you if I knew the money was fake, either. From now on, don’t lie to me.” My voice was melodic, tone cherubic, direction threatening, the call an enticing promise. I hit him across the face and he climaxed immediately, thick ropes of ejaculate leaving linear coats across his cool olive physique.

All of that performance art. His desperate attempts at gender. Fulfilling the role of the tough guy was all a ruse. He was an unconventional masochist trying to cover up his insides. I was surprised, and it showed on my face. I think he started to blush, and then I slid off of his thighs. He jumped to his feet and quickly dressed his largely dirty body in the clean clothes he came here with, looking at me with a defeated expression painted across his face. He left with a limp and cleared his throat in the hallway. I saw the inside of a soul behind his chestnut eyes. He’ll be back for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This story took a turn. The one I engineered, carefully designed. I’m still kind of shocked after reading it back, though. I'm excited.


	3. Body Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yoongi is alarmed by this new side of his formerly fragile lover; Seokjin is further seduced by the assertive behavior. The three share a bed. After, Hoseok stops back in to release his potential. He is treated well by Jimin.

The three of us were a mess of limbs. The soles of Seokjin’s feet caressed the sides of Yoongi’s calves. The shortest of us had his face buried between my thighs, breathing in slowly and exhaling at a ticklish rate. Our eldest rubbed the back of my neck while half of my face pressed against his chest; we were exhausted and disorganized, afraid of moving. The attic was a surprisingly luxurious place. Perfectly outfitted for a security and maintenance man, whatever that meant. I stroked his abdomen with one hand, the other palm threading its steady fingers through Yoongi’s hair. Scratching his scalp, rubbing it with plump fingertips. He told me they watched the videotapes of Namjoon and were surprised. Facing Seokjin’s crotch, I caught the immediate reaction of his naked body. He loved it, but Yoongi seemed concerned. “You’re getting tough out there, aren’t you?” He never imagined his boy on the proverbial streets, hustling even a dime, much less an emotion. An entire man, at that. 

Seokjin grew larger. I grabbed him without a second thought. For all his tonal fussing, Yoongi didn’t mind watching. Our host shifted his body to create a cycle and suddenly he was in my mouth, and he was teasing at Yoongi’s own impressive gift. Yoongi was already taking me in, singing his love. I might not have done so maliciously as I did to my customer, but these men were twisted further around my finger than Namjoon was. Much further. They were in love. The simultaneous bliss was poetic justice. I was totally absent. Only the curls of their affection hugging my body were easy to decipher from the sea of heat. All mine. We fell asleep and I woke up shortly before sunrise to see only Seokjin beside me. His eyelids fluttered open like he was just waiting to attack, speaking simply and immediately.

“My friend’s coming back, today.”  
“Friend?”  
“My best friend.” He might have thought it sounded childish, but at least now I know _which_ bumbling mess to expect: the one I empathized with, and was fond of.  
“I’ll take good care of him.”  
A soft sigh fell from his lips, smile so gently it was hardly there. He seemed grateful. “Thank you.”  
“Don’t be worried. I love you.” I kissed his cheek and rubbed his arm before hopping to my feet. In nothing but one of his foreign jerseys, I jumped down each step and retreated to my room on the first floor, where I could prepare for the businessman’s arrival.

Cleaning was straightforward, repetitive, and habitual. I was spotless, I was visually pleasing. I wore nothing but a sinfully comfortable black robe, my human curvature exposed in full nudity beneath its fluffy embrace. Laying back on my bed was amazing like this, but I wasn’t awake for another nap. On a day off, this industrious client was already on his way, enjoying an early morning rendezvous. Maybe I could keep him happy throughout the afternoon. There was an odd part of me that wanted to take care of him. No, not the same feeling I had for Seokjin. Hoseok is a hard-working man who struggles to express himself. Maybe I can relate. 

Unfortunately, the physical preparation was the easiest. What did he like? What was this secret? What made him feel like a freak, earned him the title? Maybe it’d be better if I didn’t know until the heat of the moment could persuade me in its favor, the passion of compassion and the pleasure of leisure luring me into his hazy, lustful visions. I took him and guided him rather entertainingly, last time. A unique position. It was simple and he didn’t last long. A part of me wished the same for this session, but I was getting paid to do whatever it took. I wanted to please Seokjin and hopefully get him off, too. Speak of the devil, my lover was letting him in, and I knew it a moment later when I heard a knock on my door. 

I opened it with a bright smile to see the bulkier of my boyfriends holding the suit-clad man by his shoulders. Pinstripes and perfectly circular, wire rim glasses. Seokjin walked away with a smile of good faith and I took Hoseok’s hand, tugging him inside and kicking the door shut behind him. I wrapped my arms around his neck, kissed his lips to let saliva linger, and whispered into his ear. I told him to let me please him. He said that he spoke to Seokjin. About what? He must have known everything, now, but I opened myself up and offered any version of his best friend’s slutty boyfriend that he’d like. A uniform cause. He asked me to strip him, first. So I did, took the suit off neatly, folded it and tossed it on top of my dresser. I thought about shutting the laptop on the way down. It just didn’t feel right, with how shy Hoseok was. I’d tell them all about it later, but he needed total discretion. I didn’t want his paranoia acting as a truthful sixth sense. I wouldn’t be the grimy liar, then. But there must have been a middle ground.

He was wearing sports brand shorts, long and black, whose rim started an inch beneath his belly button, legs revealed four above his knees. It was not skin tight, but its size was formfitting, and he wore nothing underneath. Shaft swollen already, its shape was humble and pretty, manageable and lovable. His body was different, but alluring; he has a tight core, gentle but sure muscle definition chiseled along his inwardly curved torso. He was slender overall, kind of like Yoongi but with a slightly tighter midriff. A masculine hourglass. His arms were nice, more bulbous than Jungkook’s. I stroked them with my palms before turning around, discarding of the robe and tossing it over the laptop in a dramatic gesture. I left myself totally on display.

He asked me if he could explore my body, so I crawled onto my bed and readied myself. On my hands and knees, I looked back and arched my eyebrows, asking for some sort of guidance. I shifted onto my back when he positioned himself behind me and tugged at my rear, so I pulled my knees with my hands and let everything hang itself out in preemptive missionary. I was a bit afraid right then, I can’t lie. What was he thinking, what did he have planned out? 

His eyes traced my body like he was studying his tax returns for the first time, looking for every detail. His analytical mind was both captivating and boring all at once; I could see it behind his eyes. This wasn’t sex. It wasn’t even arousal. He was still hesitating, calculating ways he could address his own desires without actually satiating them. So I let one leg droop and pressed its strong foot against his bulge gently, as if to snap him out of it, a simple recall to reality. Three strokes of a violent shiver shifted his shoulders back and forth, and he let out a moan that I can only describe as unfiltered. 

This was it, my one true talent. Finding people’s kinks. I knew them in my heart, my intuition told me. I was meant to use sex to get my way in life. Makes sense. He pulled my foot up to his lips and ran his tongue along the bottom, I let it rest there and quivered myself, not because this is what I had always wanted in life but rather because I was ticklish. I was not comfortable, but I was certainly an industrious boy, so I used my free foot and continued to rub at his bulge, which became rock hard in no time. I slid the largest toe beneath the waistband and managed to tug his shorts down to his knees, which seemed erotic enough to make him crazy judging by the way he leaked.

I started touching myself, then, as he rubbed my bulky calf with one hand to support the large sole against his face. My other foot caressed the underside of his shaft, its ankle coated in gradual premature ejaculate. I was aroused, in long-form, with complex, fragmented thoughts and feelings, about his intensity. This was likely only because his desires had been oppressed for so long, but the way he slurped and grunted and throbbed all had me pumping my shaft with an agile passion, my other hand preparing myself with one finger, and then two. The pucker was clenching harder than usual, but I soldiered on. He slithered forward and took me like this. Missionary indeed, only instead of my legs around his waist or over his shoulders, they were arched back—my hands holding either knee—the bottoms of my feet pressed directly against his face. For once, their largeness was more than an inconvenience at the shoe store. He was barely inside of me, and hardly needed to be. 

He pulled back and released all over my own member, and I freed one of my hands to use it as lubricant while it was warm, finishing on my stomach myself. But he dived in and licked me clean, seemed exhausted, and we did the same thing again after an hour of cuddling. The same. Exact. Thing. He had me on my stomach once around lunchtime, too. He finished on my feet, used them pressed together, slid himself between my soles until he covered my sizable, neglected ass with shockingly momentous ropes. His mediocre sack had a lot hidden away. Maybe it was the power of his emotion, his lustful mind. Maybe thought alone can affect one’s body so dramatically.

He offered to help me clean up, but I told him that he definitely didn’t have to. I offered him access to my bathroom. He wet a washcloth to clean his sparingly dirtied self, politely hanging it from the edge of my hamper before returning. Slowly getting himself dressed, he patted the crinkled edges of his suit down in the mirror while I pondered the challenges of making my way to the shower. My feet were covered in sticky nothingness. He waved to the sex worker who just let him fuck their feet multiple times. A wave goodbye. He waved to me. 

He smiled and bowed, shutting the door politely behind him. I don’t even know what to say. I crawled into the shower and laid there, my lower back still twitching from memories of the sensitive abuse. That was fun. I won’t be adding his excitements to my personal life, but I don’t mind taking his money and making him happy. I wonder what it’ll take to get a kiss out of him, though.


	4. Pyramids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimin does Jungkook a favor. Taehyung is thankful. Jimin’s many compartmentalized faces are threatening to converge.

I haven’t gone outside in a while. The sunset always paints the walls of my room a searing warmth, and I’m always frustrated that I can’t get the purples and pinks I see on the horizon to accompany the wallpaper. I’ve invested a fortune in the washing machine downstairs, but my sheets are dried and clean, still radiating heat against my equally spotless body. I fell asleep for a nap, and it was wonderful. I woke up only knowing darkness, properly assuming it was sometime comfortably before midnight. Stumbling out of bed, I equipped my naked body with the blissful black robe once more, smiling and blowing a kiss to the camera. I knew that Yoongi would want to talk about what happened with the laptop later, and that Seokjin would want to know how things went with Hoseok. We haven’t gone on a date in a while. Maybe I’ll sweet talk them into an outing this weekend. 

Jungkook knocked on the door. He told me that he wanted to “teach” Taehyung how to top. That he was “too gifted” to lay in waste. I tried to explain to him that being well-endowed doesn’t mean one won’t prefer to be on bottom, but his understanding of will and fate was far outplayed by littleness. His view of the world was minuscule. It was one of the things that brought us so close. Beyond the way we attach to our partners the most, he was my best friend here, as far as I knew. I wondered if that was because I enjoyed his childishness or if I simply liked feeling superior. I think I know the answer.

I crossed the hallway and entered the taller’s bedroom. It was hazy with the humid weight of sex, scent heavy and comfortingly familiar. It was alluring in the way that break time at work was: a watered down commodity, a total invention, but you’d enjoy it nonetheless. I stopped to think despite the immediateness of a negative answer. Was I getting paid to teach a boy my age how to put his penis in someone else? Was I even selling my body, or was I giving it away? Did I mind, though, or was it for fun? My relationship wasn’t flexible to my job, it was simply open. For me, and me alone. I hoped Seokjin and Yoongi never saw the unfairness in this. How selfish, I was.

Taehyung was on his back, legs spread. I turned him into an object in my mind, to compare the size of his impressive shaft to those of the other men I had encountered thus far. He wasn’t thick like my lovers, but long, so long. I didn’t understand why Jungkook couldn’t just appreciate simple interactions, hugs and kisses with it, and watching it sway when he pleased the shy boy how the shy boy wanted to be pleased. I dropped my robe and slid beside Taehyung, seeing the redness around his nose up close. I stroked his arm and he shivered. Where did they get poppers? I noticed it immediately, it wasn’t hard. Jungkook double-checked the doors, which have locked automatically with mechanical metal bars since the dawn of time. He waddled toward the two of us and jumped on top of me, sliding his tongue against the back of my neck.

I recognized what he was trying to do. Maybe he hadn’t, but I did. Making Taehyung jealous was not going to trigger him to join in. Taehyung didn’t live here, in this forsaken house. He still was Hoseok’s roommate, and he would stay that way until he wanted to start selling himself. That was a dark truth that Jungkook had a hard time accepting. Hoseok told me about his coincidental friendship with Taehyung while we cuddled the other day. Taehyung stops by their apartment seldom. I wonder how Jungkook’s business has been lately. His head clearly wasn’t in the game. I pushed him away gently and shook my head, speaking in an introductory and proper tone. I turned to the lad on his back first.

“Do you want to be inside of someone?”  
“Yes.” He was being honest.  
“Do you want to do it like this?”  
“No.” I shook my head, rolled my eyes, and encouraged Jungkook off of me with hands on his shoulders. If anyone here was an expert power bottom, it was me. I knew that much by now. I had the tools to do the job.

Still on my chest, I rolled between his thighs and looked up at him with a wide, doe-eyed gaze. It disarmed him immediately, his legs slouching I as I took the head of his swollen shaft into my mouth. The moans were immediate. Had Jungkook never serviced him like this? The taller was behind me, stretching me with a touch, licking at me and readying me politely enough. I caressed Taehyung’s balls in the warmth of my palm, using the other hand to stroke the slick flesh which I drooled all over in the act of faithfully bobbing my head. I held his cock by the hilt and slid it along the surface of my tongue rapidly, offering it to my throat as I felt him leaking and throbbing, and I knew that it was all about the experience.

The experience, and nothing else. He was a submissive young man with an excited, reckless lover. He didn’t need to be taught how to top, how to fuck; he just needed to feel it, to become familiar with it. I crawled on top of him and sunk down with a sultry cry. Jungkook moved, standing above Taehyung now, giving him an arousing view as I took the taller into my mouth. I wrapped my arms around his thighs to pace myself, bouncing liberally, tightening myself as if to massage Taehyung’s largeness. He wasn’t going to last long. I felt it in my core. Jungkook held onto my head just a little too tight but I kept moving, the bed rock impressive as the springs loosened beneath the to and fro, up and down harmony of my merciless hips. I was milking the life out of this boy with my ass. I heard it in his gradual yelps, and how he choked on his inability to harness a heavy breath when he found orgasm without warning. A small load, a series of dry throbs, and then another set of longer strands as his testicles tightened and ached.

I pulled back to let my moans fall free, and as soon as Jungkook realized what was happening, he started stroking himself quickly, finishing on my face in no time. It was quite the sight, so I let him stumble to his feet, the least demobilized of all of us, to look for his smartphone. I smiled down at Taehyung despite the awkwardness of waiting for a lustful picture I hardly wanted to take, leaning in to lock lips, my visage soiled with his lover’s seed. He smiled and chuckled as our tongues swirled around one another, one picture already taken, and then two from the side, and then another from between his legs, where his swollen sack was pressed tightly against my own massive globes. They looked like they were consuming Taehyung’s phallus. I told Jungkook not to embarrass his boyfriend with those images. He said they were just for his own pleasure. Hopefully _this_ was what brought him pleasure. Us.


	5. Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimin goes out to lunch with Seokjin and Yoongi. Their conversation turns sour. The mileage on Jungkook’s friendship seems to vary.

My appetite disappeared as soon as it arrived. I wasn’t truthfully hungry to begin with, but getting to have a meal with Seokjin and Yoongi in public was remarkable. It wasn’t even noon and I already felt nauseated. They were saying they needed to talk. I covered the laptop camera with my robe when Hoseok showed up. They heard the encounter and assumed good things. I told Seokjin about everything, and he seemed pleased, almost ecstatic. But our relationship was removed, and suddenly, I was a building block of progress in his best friend’s development and not a person with a sex drive. I might as well have been Hoseok’s therapist. Yoongi was mad. He was mad about precisely what I knew in my gut was wrong. 

I alluded to the threesome with Jungkook and Taehyung, and he spelled it out for me, a word I already knew like the back of my hand. It wasn’t me doing my job or me performing to satiate his kink, so it was essentially me cheating. Apparently, Jungkook had already sent those pictures of me and Taehyung to Hoseok. He sent them to Seokjin. He playfully assumed it would be sexually appreciated. The fact that they were, and yet still became an obstacle for me in the non-sexual aspect of our relationship, was insidious. I felt like an object. I mentioned the concept of an open relationship and it burned into my tongue like a number, bookmarking the amount of times I’ve wanted to die in the past month. I get the feeling that Yoongi wasn’t nearly as upset as I thought he was. I know that Seokjin still loved me, and he wasn’t mad. The only person I was an object to was myself. And that was the real problem.

My entire young life, I romanticized what it meant to be in a relationship. Now that I was finally in deep, my dark, dreadful image of infidelity withered slowly. It wasn’t as dramatic as it once was, as big and threatening as my mind is. I questioned, in that millisecond, what emotions would rule my heart if I walked in on Yoongi having sex with someone else. Oddly, I felt little. Seokjin? Maybe he was free, too. I questioned what difference it would make for the target to be a stranger, compared to a friend of mine. I wondered if metagaming my own thoughts was inaccurate. I am not clairvoyant. I think it’s hard to tell.

There was a little blaming. After all, Yoongi was the one who brought me into this mess. Nobody shouted, but it became somewhat tense. I said, without being offered an ultimatum, that I’d rather quit and find a new job somewhere else, with the three of us still together, than lose them or open up the relationship. The fact of the matter was that it wasn’t the physical that worried me but rather the chance for mental adultery. That wasn’t a risk that I was willing to take. There was a sense of calm, somehow. Seokjin was more eager, but Yoongi fell into silence. They were willing to take it further, in unity, To see where it went. My autonomy was not limited. My freedom was not scrutinized. Beyond expressing themselves, they did not request that I change.

Here I am, on my bed, crying. I am now unsure about something in my life. Again. It’s not fair. If something I do is a turn on when he can get off to it, but as soon as I apply the same rules to a different setting, it’s an issue. Something felt off, it still seems that way. Maybe it’s just a bump on the highway. Neither of them demanded or reconsidered anything. Maybe Seokjin was less enraged because he is new to this arrangement, and he hadn’t known me until he saw me in line-up. Skimpily dressed. Seductive. Yoongi had me when I was fifteen. He doesn’t know this side of me yet, because he’s stuck on the past. I hoped and prayed that our relationship wasn’t a relic of these obsessions, a compulsive artifact of this past. But history repeats itself, and it’s important I remember that I will die as lonely as I was born.

I walked across the hall and considered lashing out at Jungkook. He was by myself. He said that Taehyung had returned to his shared apartment to collect some things. I started a brief dialogue.

“I thought you said those pictures were just for your own pleasure?” He arched a brow. I closed the door. “You sent them to Hoseok. He sent them to Seokjin.”  
“Yeah, they were. And I pleasured myself from sharing them. It’s not like some stranger got them.” This boy was developing a lip.  
“Yeah, well, now my boyfriends are on my ass over whether or not I should have sex outside of the job, so I guess you can thank yourself next time I don’t fuck you.” I turned around and left. Our friendship was truly hot and cold. 

I spent the evening alone, wrecked with guilt and worry. Jungkook came over the next morning to apologize to me. I accepted a hug and kiss and he cuddled me, laying on top of me, tucked between my arms, my legs wrapped around his waist. The camera was uncovered. I didn’t mind. I felt him slide inside of me, but the motions of his hips were so smooth and endearing that I didn’t stop him. He was polite enough not to finish, kissing my cheek, pulling up his pants, and returning to his room with a hard on. That was his idea of comforting me. Being with me and fucking me. Proving himself, his capability, and his own freedoms with my body. The lines of amicability and lechery were permanently blurred. This was my recession; I would emerge an animal.


	6. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A charming customer wanders into the house with a burning desire. Jimin knocks it out of the park, fueled by self-destruction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or, I'm Your Bitch

I put intimate, professional photos on my website profile a couple weeks ago. In order to view them, an interested customer would have to prove that they had enough money to qualify for the highest bracket. These prestigious clientele would unlock a plethora of beautiful, graphic images to persuade them in my favor. A very rich young man, the son of an Olympic Chinese athlete, verified his fiscal value and fell in love with my, and I quote, “abundant and luxurious figure.” The email introduced itself by disclaiming that it was being written by an interpreter; in other words, if I agreed to see the eager lad, we would have a language barrier of total absence standing between us. I did know what he looked like, of course. The way this boy spoke intimately and shamelessly through a translator had me thrilled. He was probably spoiled and selfish, but I was interested. I knew that the body was communication’s best tool, specifically in sex. I said yes, and upon accepting, was told his name.

Jackson Wang. A brat from Hong Kong, westernized only in style and _swagger._ He came in discreetly through a back entrance. Knocking his ego down a few notches would have been splendid. I could have told him that no one knew who he was around here but kept the brutality to myself. I made an effort to appear identical to my digital promises, like a teenage wank poster come to life. Paperwork and paper were exchanged with Yoongi in front of my room, Seokjin an intimidating presence at his side. A handgun was holstered to the taller’s tool belt. I showed the two men accompanying my customer my identification card so that they could be sure this wasn’t an underage setup. He got a little bit too excited when they told him I was just eighteen. Both parties parted down the hallway shoulder-to-shoulder, and I was left standing in nothing but a breathtaking pair of silk boxers. Red and gold. I knew they’d make him feel right at home.

He was dressed in a monochrome muscle shirt. It felt appropriate to deem the top a wife-beater given its model. The faded, ripped black jeans which tightly hugged his firm legs were admirable, as were the matching basketball sneakers. As soon as he was welcomed behind a closed door, however, none of it mattered. All and the baseball cap which hid his bottle blond hair were gone in a matter of moments, forming a series of messy piles around the entrance to my room. The laptop which I had considered retiring for the sake of simplicity was suddenly a beacon of comfort, its audio and video feeds keeping me familiar company in the midst of masculine chaos. He had me pinned against the wall gently, making a strip tease out of his designer brand white briefs being tugged down by a thumb. He bit his lower lip and growled, looking me up and down. 

My formalities were a crutch. I realized it then, finally unable to speak. The beast inside of me was no longer a trained gentleman on the clock. I would rely on that feral guidance to please my picky prey going forward. Moving on in the tangible realm, I drew a smile across my own face, letting out an acute, sultry moan when the veiny girth of his throbbing erection bounced sternly free. Slick flew from the leaking tip like a flicked paintbrush, gracing the thick thigh of my semi-nude body. He loved that. I grabbed a hold of his member, and he pushed a hand through my marshmallow locks and guided me to my knees.

He was clean, so I didn’t ask before pleasing him, taking him until my button nose was pressed against the darkness of his trimmed crotch. He loved the spontaneous aspect of my eagerness the most, but lustful passion and the expertise of trained and practiced skill helped immensely. His husky voice generated particularly seductive groans, and they filled the room, falling faster and faster, as I bobbed my head and guided his hairy sack into my mouth as well. At the same time. Yes, deeper, I had all of his genitals in my throat at once. It sounds awkward? It probably looked awkward. It certainly wasn’t easy, and it was definitely my first time, but I was no stranger to Mr. Wang’s wallet. I wanted a suitor, obsessed with my ostentatious behavior, and I knew how to please. How to get what I want.

My doe-eyed gaze said it all, flickering upward on a beat. Dark brown eyes, deep and captivating, my plump lips still tracking along his shaft, dragging and collecting his musk beneath my sheathed teeth. My tongue bore into my lower bite to take him all in once more, only choking or gagging when I could make it wet and graceful. Only one chance to make it right. I was telepathic. Will you be my sugar daddy? Fuck, I’d be his anything if the deal was sweet enough. This would piss Yoongi off. If he could read my mind. If he could see me on a yacht off the coast of the Philippines like I could. My naked body, my rich confidant. I thought for a minute, a divine right, a total, hallucinatory delusion, that I could taste jealousy in Jackson’s sperm. The enthralling, bittersweet sensation of being as close to god as an economy will permit. 

He shot down my throat, coating my tongue, not pushing my head closer but grasping pathetically at my shoulders to brace himself. I kept sucking. His moans became weak, but he wanted it all. More; again and again. This wasn’t a blowjob, I was a vacuum. This was supreme delight. I hit him just right, held his sensitive orbs, sneaked a smooth touch in his backside, and he finished again. Failing to concede repeatedly. I knew what it sounded like, to hear words of love and affection in his mother tongue. I heard them like forbidden whispers. He fell back, and I guided him onto my bed without another word. Lubricating his semi-erect self with sexy strokes and climbing on top of him, I grind him against my bottom. He pulled me down by my neck, and we locked lips in the most tongue-dependent kiss I’ve ever experienced. He was hard, and then he pushed inside, and a guttural roar fled his lungs. He climaxed inside of me and slapped my ass over and over. He shoved his face into the pit of my naked arm and flipped us over, turning me side to side. He pinned me against the tiles when I allowed him a shared shower an hour later.

I was an eager schoolboy when we regrouped in the hallway. It was just me and his tired men. He spoke to them with a smile, and they translated lazily. He kept staring at my face while they explained his words to me. He really loved the evening. He’d be back. They started describing something about my mouth but cut themselves off halfway, as if telling him that was too much for them, at least so personally and face-to-face like this. He scrambled to gesture to his own rear, grabbing a hold of his package and speaking directly to me as if I understood. I found this desperation heartbreaking and adorable. He took my hand and kissed its top, his smile still shockingly charming. I was sore, but I returned to my room to clean and recover, preparing the space for a new customer from the walls to my body, and only then did I meditate before rest. I felt, above all intimacy, accomplished.


	7. Holy Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Namjoon comes crawling back with his heart on his sleeve. Jimin humors him and realizes something is wrong.

I’m slowly losing weight, and it’s no fault of my own but the muscle definition is fading too. My stomach is smoother than before, so I workout. But only lazily. In high school, I loved fitness and health. Eating always served a purpose, and I built these arms, sustained these legs, chiseled this gut so perfectly through that mindset. My build was simply large. Now, I was being reminded that my body was as well, if I’d let it be. So I started eating, and I bore a largeness again. It wasn’t the perfect largeness, but it kept its promises. Flaw filled my clothing and the spaces in between. A gradual give and take and I’d be back to supreme standing in no time. For now, I was luxuriously—and _perhaps_ happily—chubby.

Yoongi and Seokjin installed security cameras throughout the house. They lined the hallway and guarded the outdoor perimeter liberally. I was told it was for the sake of easing my own burdens, that they would comfort my anxieties and fears. I questioned what paranoia my companions faced instead. Regardless, my direct access, intimate conflict of interest, and sinful body earned me streaming permissions through my smartphone. I’d watch them for fun sometimes, but not often. No, I was too busy staring at my naked body in the mirror before line-up. I would have been dreadfully worried, significantly more so, had my next customer not been a broken record of moral declension. As long as I did what I did with the same experience, talent, passion, and open-minded fervor as always, Namjoon was happy.

He arrived out of the blue during line-up, requesting to see me. I wasn’t even dressed, fresh out of the shower when I found him on my bed, naked on his backside, looking pathetic and defeated. He hadn’t stopped thinking about getting fucked, being forced and surprised. He was entirely submissive now, and with both of us nude, it was difficult to hide the synchronicity of our pleasure. He wet his lips and got excited at the sight of my naked body. I grew hard, watching him twitch so quickly. He was submissive, eager, and obsessed. He confirmed this through whimpers and words, gentle words. Dramatic words, undeserved words. I thought he was trying to impress me, saying he would do whatever I wanted, but it became borderline concerning. I saw this utter compulsion for worship as an opportunity. Among these dirty and alarming confessions, only one concern remained. He whined.

“I’m taller than you.” Because he wanted to get fucked, and he wanted to be dominated. I explained simply.  
“You’ll be a lot smaller bent over.”

Not shorter, smaller. I started belittling him immediately, because it’s what he wanted, and it satiated by sadism. The lubricant didn’t take long, but I kept it by my side, ready to generate as much of a noisy physical bond as possible. I flipped him over, tucked my hands beneath his thighs, pulled his ass to the edge of the bed, and immediately slammed into his tightness. Only used once. It felt amazing, phenomenal. I was beginning to convert myself elsewhere, it seemed. Toppish. Was it evil within me? There it was, again. Only this time, it wasn’t a flowery exaggeration. This was the corruption of champions. I slapped his sensitive pucker after pulling out. I hurt him. I did it again, and again. I dunked my cock back inside and thrust every time he screamed. Heart over my eye. Eye over my head. Head over my mind. Cry, bitch. I said it out loud without trying. 

I thought about a lot of things, down that rabbit hole. I thought about money. I thought about new beginnings. I thought about regret, potential and feasible, and about conclusions and arithmetic. It was basic math, wasn’t it? If I could move past my mother’s death without a goodbye, then I could dump all connections and skip town. My chest did hurt when I considered leaving Yoongi and Seokjin behind. I’ve fought with them so much, lately. Maybe I wasn’t meant for them; one, or both. I argued with Yoongi more. Seokjin was simply at an emotional distance. Best case scenario, I leave them both behind and they fall in love. I was the awkward bridge, a painful memory in the rear view. If only I could orchestrate that. If only I could tie the red strings around my pinky and thumb together instead. If I knew, as a fact of life, that they would be together forever in holy matrimony, then I would kiss them hard and vanish.

At my age, even the depths of philosophical anxiety couldn’t cut the blood flow to my hardness. Throbbing like stone, I continued with my motions as he soiled my bed sheets. I had no interest, comfortably checked out, although the power did arouse me to a point of euphoria despite the ongoing presence of burdensome thoughts. Look at all these big words I use. Look at how great I am at clouding my judgement and my common mind. I’m so sexy, so young, so cute, so agile, so tight, so thick. But I’m intelligent, too. And creative. Fun-loving. Emotionally faithful whilst not under conflicting physical duress. If someone could hold me down, maybe I’d sit still. But encouraging me, telling me to be with other people, or sitting passive to it, just wasn’t enough. It was perfect for this profession, a wonderful attitude for my pimp. But I didn’t want to have a pimp, I wanted a boyfriend. A partner. I wanted to be in school, to be messing around. To have a chance to be lazy, to play games, to read and write and play music. 

I want to go to concerts, and be in love. I could runaway like this. Have two men hold me down; just the right variety of difference and monogamous consistency. I need to be held down, to be put into my place. If I could shut up for five seconds, I could make my life work splendidly. Why don’t you, Jimin? What are you so afraid of? Is there something better out there? Someone who’s going to be more understanding, more flexible? Someone who will treat you better? Or is three too many? What are you afraid of, huh? Realizing you’re shit? Realizing you’re too emotional, too volatile, too selfish to support that balance? Realizing they will fall in love? You’re so willing to cut corners and trim edges, but you’re next, bitch. You’re next.

I spilled between his cheeks, painting a river across the slit, and the liquid slipped into his gaping chasm and leaked along the estuary of his back dimples. He was crying, but he had ejaculated multiple times. It covered his legs, feet, and thighs. He asked if he could stay for the night. He said he’d paid for five hours. As long as he knew his place.


	8. Loner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimin mulls over his finer feelings. Jungkook interrupts a session screaming and crying.

I really did ruin that night with my thoughts. I get the feeling that Namjoon only wanted more because of my emotional distance. He liked the ferocious dominance. He didn’t want me to ask questions. The fact that I wasn’t opening up, the fact that I was very obviously somewhere else, made him crave my mental attention. But his affections were strong, and they made me uncomfortable. I questioned them to the point of considering blacklisting him. The fact that I found myself almost afraid of the consequences of that made me consider it even more. Ultimately, I couldn’t address that concern immediately. Not while curled up in my bed, delaying my daily rituals. What I could focus on was my relationship. Maybe try to get somewhere with _that._

What is it that I want? I’m trying to find the path through the woods, deep into my heart. Give me all your pains and selfish pleasures. All I want is the truth, from myself. It will hurt, but the most agonizing part of this experience, this journey, is trying to find my desire. That will be the real treasure. If I can blackmail my brain into telling me what it wants, then I can take the necessary steps and get it done. Perfect plan.

I suppose it’s the uncertainty that makes this cognitive trip so dreadful. Do I want to be with Yoongi and Seokjin for the rest of my life, or do I want to cut myself off from them immediately? And then there are the technicalities: if the former, what can I do to guarantee their undying love again, as soon as possible? If the latter, do I say goodbye? I can’t ghost them. That’s my worst nightmare. I would find them and kill them if either did that to me. So how do I have that conversation? How do I start to talk when I don’t know which words will fall from my mouth... 

So I shut my eyes, take deep breaths, and hope that a meditative state will show me the light. It doesn’t, but it does slow me down. I don’t need to have my life figured out right now. The brevity of my young years and the immediate, premature seriousness of them is not fatal. This does not dictate the rest of my life. Yes, most people don’t spend the rest of their life with their high school sweetheart. Because they grow up, and they change beyond repair. Not a broken mirror. People just rearrange the freeform puzzle pieces of their soul naturally. My grandmother always used to tell me that the part of your brain responsible for emotional judgement doesn’t finish developing until you’re twenty-five years old. Until then, you’re allowed to feel this way without being immature or silly. I don’t know if that’s true. I think adults get upset, too.

I didn’t want to, but I rolled out of bed, made it succinctly and jumped into the shower. It wasn’t easy to look at myself in the medicine cabinet, but I made quick work of cleaning every familiar crevice like a road trip. I had mapped out my body a long time ago. A highway down my stomach, but so, so many side streets, curling around each muscle, bumping over ever curve. And funny how I never remember, never note or include the hour I spend on my porcelain throne, generating hunger and clearing my tunnels of threat. It works, fail proof. I’m starving most of the time, though. Maybe that’s why I lost that muscle mass. Maybe pasta wasn’t the best way to gain that back.

Drying was simple and clean. I did like my hair like this. It keeps echoing in my mind, a phrase I’ve found myself fixated upon since that night bent over Yoongi’s toilet. Toasted marshmallow. I guess it described the mixture of colors and their shades accurately. It seemed to fit me well. The phrase described me pretty thoroughly. This evening, only high-rise silk shorts. Royal blue. I put low-cut black socks on because I wanted to. They were comfortable, they kept my feet warm. Maybe someone was into that. Maybe someone was against it. I can’t write my life to please others, because it’s all or nothing, and pleasing everyone is simply impossible.

It had never occurred to me that I would need to be disclaiming my relationship status to customers. Hell, I thought it was something to avoid at all costs. Is that not the biggest mood kill you can think of? A sexy boy on your lap, and you _know_ you’re getting it, but he says ‘oh, I have a boyfriend - two, and you’re neither’. But continue, right? Yeah? You think you’re gonna egg a man on after that? Any rule book telling you that you shouldn’t avoid the truth around customers, seducing them by any cost, was written by a bankrupt crook who doesn’t know men. Maybe that’s my advantage. I am a man. I know how fickle we are, how evil our lust is. There are good men out there, but most men will do anything for their dick. He’ll cheat, he’ll force, he’ll do anything. A man is a sinful creature. It’s disgusting. It’s also where I come in.

Jackson was back. Mr. Wang had himself escorted to my room through the back entrance again, this time with only one businessman slash interpreter by his side. Needless to say, he had learned how to tell me he loves me in my language. (This is why the regret regarding relationship status came into play.) He wrapped his arms around my body and kissed my neck, my cheek, the corner of my lips in adoration. He said something in Cantonese. The man, still standing in the doorway with a tired, weakened look, translated. He enjoyed my figure. I grasped Jackson’s arms and steadied him away from me for a moment, flashing a genuine smile before turning to his affiliate. He said that they’re going home tomorrow afternoon, and that his charge just couldn’t stay away. I was flattered. Maybe I had a crush. One that would conveniently dissipate within the next twenty-four hours. I would mourn it in peace for a week and then move on. One of the many true thrills of this job.

The door shut, and we kissed and stripped, stripped each other. He loved kissing with the tongue, swirling and diving, pushing deeper. He tilted his head to delve lower into my mouth. I pulled my boxers down but didn’t step out of them too busy tearing his pointless, unimportant garment apart, grabbing him by his crown and pumping before he took control. Holding me and pushing me down. Metaphorically tied to the ground.

On my back, my legs hung off the side of the bed, but I curled them around his waist instead. I used the mirror on the back of my door to absolutely admire the beauty of his muscular lower limbs, arched and sturdy like a beast. His heavy sack hung and shook every time his visible girth filled me, and I moaned like a whore being claimed by a needy spouse. A hint of chore drowned in lust and passion, his lips selfishly leaving marks along my neck, his member so deep. His husky voice, his beautiful face, all rubbing and grunting and groaning near my cheeks as I rake my dull nails down his back, plump fingertips tracing the musculature and screaming in need. He started speaking in Chinese again, wrapping his arms around my back in a bear hug; I reciprocated as his growls grew more intense, and he filled me to the brim a moment later. I cherished the acute sensation of feeling every inch throb, a pulsating sensation carried from the hilt to the tip repeatedly.

He nuzzled into my neck, taking me in. Breathe on me, and he did, until a loud knock on the door ripped his head away. His body was still close. I shushed him and stroked his upper back comfortingly, assuming that it was just an accident. The language barrier made this hard. Very hard. The knocking didn’t go away. It got louder, more panicked, and I heard Jungkook’s voice. He was crying. I cannot fucking believe this. Someone is sheathed inside of me, what the fuck do you want? Saying that with freedom was incredible. He told me he didn’t care and that Taehyung was in trouble. I frowned and kissed Jackson’s lips, begrudgingly pulling off and kissing him again. One of the few things I knew how to say to him was thank you, and sorry. He looked distressed but nodded as if understanding, and I pulled up my boxers from where they hung along one ankle and answered the door.

He ripped me into his room by the wrist and pointed to the red-head on his bed. He was having a seizure.

“What is he on!?” I shouted, proactively not loud enough for Jackson to hear me. How self-centered. I grabbed a leather belt from the hook on the back of Jungkook’s closet door and risked my fingers to put it between Taehyung’s teeth. No cats here. Kid deserved to keep his tongue.  
“Poppers?!  
“You can’t overdose on poppers you fucking moron!”

Something must have triggered this. I suppose anything could trigger a seizure. But poppers? I lifted his head in my lap and wanted to roll my eyes, but I didn’t have time. Jungkook was useless. I screamed. We need to take him to a hospital. And instead of saying no, he fired off the reasons why we can’t. No health insurance. We’re a whorehouse. His parents can’t know where he was. His family can’t know he’s gay. No one can know he did a drug. It was a dark conviction, but I decided that I was not this boy’s guardian. I was not some moral angel. I’m a fucking hooker. If he wants to place bets with his boyfriend’s life, so be it. So we rode out the wave and Taehyung calmed, pulse present, seemingly sleeping. I rested his head back once his breath steadied. He wasn’t snoring anymore. I told Jungkook to come get me when he woke up. He seemed offended. I didn’t go to his job and knock the cock out of his mouth. 

Now, you’re welcome for saving the day, fuck off. I went back to my room and found Jackson getting dressed. My vocabulary was limited to yes, no, sorry, thank you, and I love you. So I told him I loved him, threw my arms around him melodramatically. I didn’t want him to leave like this. It was awkward, and it was tragic. I wanted to complain. I wanted to explain, but I couldn’t. He took his briefs back off and huffed, crawling onto the bed, laying on his back. I touched him again, touched him until he’d release, and I licked him off my hand and kissed every inch of his body. He slept with me that night. When I woke up, he was gone. 

A note in his handler’s handwriting, and more than anything, a phone number. Pinned to the back of my door. Would he hand the phone off to his wealthy father’s hireling every time I shot him a text? I figured his was a useful language to learn, anyway. Hong Kong is a beautiful place. I made him a contact in my phone, put his professional email in beside what I assumed was his personal cell. Networking counts for something. Gives me options.


	9. Left Too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimin discloses the status of his relationship through a painful internal monologue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He’s grasping at straws, here. Begging and pleading with every modicum of his own reality. He craves closure, so he needs endings, and he looks for them, conjures them, anywhere and everywhere.

Fatigue is fascinating. It weighs over me like a heavy blanket. I don’t have to breathe, don’t have to think. My eyes want to be shut. My body wants to curl into fetal position. My palm wants to cradle my forehead as I sink into an abyss of eternal comfort. If my mind isn’t working overtime to distract its own holy peace, I find slumber fast. There, my brain is almost always distressed, and the physical fades into nothingness. What was once my only concern becomes totally nonexistent. Sometimes, as soon as you satisfy something, it disappears. Once in a while, this is an amazing thing. Most of the time, it is dangerous. You can want something so badly, need something, but you become spoiled once you finally receive it. This is the nature of desire, isn’t it? A cyclical privilege. We want food more than anything when we’re hungry, but once we are full, food loses its value. We don’t want to look at it, touch it, even think of it. We want sex when we are horny, but as soon as we climax, as soon as we come down, allure, attraction, and everything that had previously captivated our libidos becomes instantly worthless. These shifts happen in a blink of an eye. They are not gradual lifestyle changes, predicted paradigm shifts. It is something to be grateful for when you can identify these monstrosities at all. You know what dinner will bring, you know what lechery has wrought. You might not always know when a relationship has run its course until it’s all over. I don’t mean formalities, I mean an emotional epiphany. Realizing that something is over. This is a part of intuition. When it comes to survival and resource scarcity, we know what to expect. When it comes to romance, to passions, to hobbies, to phases, we don’t know, we can’t know, until it has completed itself. When we’re looking back.

Some say that you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. This is just the process of reminiscing, and missing the stage of desiring; basking in your own content. That’s what you really want, when you miss something. Not the object of affection, but the act, the very rhythm, of wanting it. And there are certainly incentives. Uses in not touching, not fixing, what isn’t broken. You don’t have to end a relationship if you aren’t starting another. But that’s evil, isn’t it? True selfishness. That’s what board games are all about. Pen and paper characterizations. They ask you about law and chaos, your penchant for organization and playing by the rules, but they also ask you about your seraphic demeanor. In these settings, ‘good’ and ‘evil’ just mean ‘selfless’ and ‘selfish’. I don’t agree with the bold statement. It’s one thing to insinuate and another to determine.

My mother was a massive fan of Ayn Rand. I wasn’t a day over ten the first time she told me to read _The Fountainhead_ with conviction. She had translated copies scattered across her study. Objectivism never quite sold itself as effectively in French, but she taught me all about it. She taught me how to take care of myself. She taught me how to be ruthless and conniving when I needed to be. It’s just a matter of fact, that I heard “I love you” less than I heard “life isn’t fair.” My mother grew up poor. She cared about social welfare. She cared about canned food drives and recycling. She cared about the world, but her ruthless opinions were always pragmatic. Some of them were selfish, and she took no prisoners whilst raising her off-spring. Subservient as a woman was at the dinner table, she still saw beyond the many archetypes which were projected onto her eventually. She never recognized these as controlling her, but I saw an absolutely perseverant survivalist underneath it all.

We’re socialized to question ourselves from the theoretical lens of our mothers. Would you talk to your mother with that mouth? What would your mother think of this? As conservative and traditional as she was, my mother was fiercely independent. Like a firework bent over horizontally; you never knew which way she’d fire, but she always moved forward. It’s an odd metaphor, now that I think about it. Her light is gone, but I can’t allow for my own unhappiness in the shadow of her memory, nor can I cause unnecessary trouble for myself in the carnage. 

Some say that distant love is the definition of a marriage. My boyfriends pay my bills, fill my bank accounts, and keep me safe. There is absolutely no selfish reason for me to rid myself of them. Taking advantage of a system, enjoying law and order, and creating a self-centered agenda. They call this crass. Lawful evil. I’ve sunk as low as this field goes without deviating and dramatizing my actions as well. I wonder what taboo, what adventure, what punishment I might partake in through the presence of my body. Instead of limiting myself as a young adult, I plan the recklessness of my twenties and thirties, as far away as they are. I am calculated, and I decide above all to praise these talents by allowing myself to bend my own intellect for gain.

I spoke with Yoongi and Seokjin this afternoon. About everything. Yoongi says his brother is getting into gambling, and Yoongi himself is exploring nightlife. Seokjin is studying and taking classes online. I found my trusts shifting, then. Yoongi says he drinks and spends time with friends. I asked him if he’d ever been intimate with any of them. Here, our age sears deep. We both can’t play this game alone. He’s kissed a girl. I slapped him across the face when he told me. This is only a matter of the selfish cuckold. He brought me into prostitution, told me he liked it, steadied our relationship in one-sided exhibition, and now he was wandering from our previously romantic contract without asking. Without even bothering to poke and prod at my uneasy conscience, which would have broken down and bent to his will with easy request. This was no doubt infidelity. We had only been together in any form for a few years. We were both so young. I based my emotion off of empirical fact, somehow, so it made sense to me to be upset, because we _had_ talked about our relationship, and nowhere within that disclaimer had I been given room to expect this. 

Seokjin said he could ‘see both sides’. Well let me tell you something. I can only see one side to this story. My side. Yoongi started crying. He wanted forgiveness. He said he was sorry. I spit on him and pretended to change my mind thirteen minutes later. So now, we’re all in an open relationship. An open relationship, and there’s no one I despise more in this world then the weights around my pitiful ankles. When I got back to my room, I uninstalled the streaming program from my laptop. Yoongi asked me why, upset, camming me with that fucking annoying little shit head face. I flipped him off. He told me he wasn’t into degradation like Namjoon. I told him good, because I wouldn’t enjoy making him feel like shit if he got off on it.

Seokjin told me Yoongi cried himself to sleep. Asked me if I was feeling manic. I told him yes, that the only maniac in the house was me, for trusting my life in the hands of any other person. Particularly a man of such a young and flippant figure, but anyone at all, really. He asked me if I wanted to talk. I said no, but of course I did. I’d love to complain like this. To say all of this to someone else, but the gag is that I don’t care enough. I don’t wanna hear it, the questions. I can hear a voice now. Where is all of this vitriol coming from?

I can answer that. Shut your eyes. I want you to imagine what it feels like to realize that you’ve been living your life for someone else, or that you’re totally miserable in a reversible situation, or that you don’t feel like doing something but you’ve been forcing yourself. My mother’s passing started this, and watching Jackson leave on the same day Taehyung almost died sealed the deal. I could be gone tomorrow. I don’t want anyone playing me the fool. I don’t want to do anything I don’t want to. And I don’t need a reason for that. 

In polyamory, an open relationship, or anything deviant from the monogamy we know so dearly, jealousy arises. Humankind is programmed with a certain possessiveness, whether through the competition of sexual selection or the socialization of our immediate surroundings. I was too jealous, not of Yoongi and Seokjin together, but of the very idea of an open connection. Or chance. And obviously, more than anyone else, they shared a mutual lack of sturdy footing knowing that I was feeling things elsewhere. Knowing, hearing, seeing your partner experience orgasm with someone else is absolutely heart wrenching. In that, I’ve been selfish. I now stand by my decision but do so with the belief that it is the best for all of us. Tonight, we met again. I stayed silent and paid no mind.

So we’re _on a break_ and it isn’t easy but I feel it’s only right. I don’t take all of the blame. Yoongi was the one who brought me into this, but I’m not blaming him. I feel bad for tugging Seokjin’s typical excitement and self through the fire, but everything happens for a reason. And the course of my roller coaster relationship with Yoongi; it projects our young nature, our changing hearts. He doesn’t like observing anymore. I don’t like being held down when there’s so much excitement in so many different strangers. They both still live upstairs. They’re both still programmed into my life in different ways. I don’t want it to be awkward. We still share a connection, myself with each of them and the three of us as a whole. Friendship, intimacy, sex. I don’t know where this will go, but the threads have yet to break free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A young boy might think he’s successfully mourned the dysfunctional relationship he had with his now deceased mother, but here we see a desperate cry for help that he doesn’t know he’s singing. Jimin’s a very smart person, but—just like everyone else—he still struggles with a plethora of subconscious struggles. He knows his mother’s death started this, but looks for someone else to ground his capricious behavior. He needs to ground his own attitude. His invisible demons are becoming more and more problematic as the story progresses. The real question is what, or who, will be left by the time he catches himself. And what _is_ the “Prime” of his decadence? Is it linguistically ironic? Is the moral and personal decline of his self glorious? What constitutes his self?
> 
> Why aren’t I letting the readers figure this out for themselves? I haven’t written many notes this part of the series, but I’m venting now. I’m just hurt. I’m upset for Jimin, I’m upset that he destroyed his own relationship, and I’m upset that I don’t know if it’s all going to be better. He writes himself, and it hurts, and it’s wild, but we’re gonna go there and see if there are trees to sleep under when we get there.


	10. Interlude 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimin greets a new coworker with open arms, parted legs, and a refreshingly welcoming mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or, Hands Free

Yoongi’s brother left me with an atypical assignment this morning. We had a new employee, which was imperative given our dwindling numbers. His name is Kim Jongin. A Chinese-born expatriate who is looking to make money under the table with the natural gifts of a young man. A relatable stance. I was asked to both interview and train him, not unlike what I did when Jungkook first showed up. This would be either much simpler and easier or infinitely harder; less personal, and difficult. I craved the chance to satiate my desire for control, the wishes of power so lewd they were practically a thoughtcrime. I prepared myself by washing thoroughly, moisturizing my face, and resetting the color of my hair. The tone was familiar, consistent, and then a faded chestnut. There were no warm undertones. Plain and homely, like the blue black I was born with. I don’t mean the eccentricities of the color wheel atop my baby head. A set of dark, ruffled locks without some Neanderthal orange or red at my roots or beneath the surface was what I was born with.

I retrieved Jongin at the door to his room. He had started to unpack the lonely suitcase accompanying him. His arrival must have been as sudden as his departure, but I didn’t ask. It was none of my business. I wore a black, mesh hook thong, because as much as I despise the visual design, it’s a comfortable and minimalist way for fabric to cradle my junk when I walk. I hate even the word, put simply, but they made the bulge in my black sweatpants noticeable and fantastic. My white muscle shirt made me look more masculine than I perceived myself to be. Quite politely, I asked him where he would like to speak. He requested to go to my room, and I obliged, quickly guiding him there.

He was taller than me. I didn’t know how significantly, but it felt like he was practically six feet tall, and my smallness came back to light again. Of all my simple vulnerabilities, my compactness was the only trait I favored. I was easier to protect that way, wasn’t I? When he asked if he could use my bathroom, so politely that I couldn’t say no to him entering my private space, he shut the door. He’s either shy or not into water sports. Sadly, those are dramatically opposing statements. I couldn’t make much from this; I was no psychologist. While he was away, I slipped my own underwear off and put my pants back on commando. Actually much better. 

He showed me his abs, taking his typical clothing off, the tee shirt and jeans weighing down his build. Slender, and dark like me. Our bodies varied but our faces were both round, our skin olive and heavy. Standing there in nothing but dark grey boxers, he posed like a model. I liked his smile, and commented accordingly. How big was he? He blushed, then, and pulled the cloth down instead. Stroking his naked body to bring himself to life, I watched with teeth dragging across my lower lip. A typical texture, and though of average thickness, his length made for a uniquely shaped commodity. I was smooth, shorter, and thick, and he had the definition of veins and a vertical frame to help him. Nice for sideways action, I hypothesized. Taking a step forward, I wrapped my smaller fingers around his phallus, and he remarked on how he found them cute (probably due to size). Jackson said they made his cock look even bigger. Or at least, his interpreter said he did through a text this morning. Dirty talk and reminiscent sweet nothings, how precious. 

When he started to leak, I pressed my palm against his smooth and rather humble sack, letting the slit ooze along my forearm. I felt the weight of him fully then, his warmth. It fit him. A straightforward confidence. He seemed sweet. He spoke my language, both literally and proverbially; peas of the same pod. His physique was a metaphor for my opposite in some ways, but he was externally calm, polite, and gracious. We sat along the edge of my bed, and I asked him a series of standard questions. If he was a top or a bottom (versatile, thankfully), if he preferred being in control or out of it (he described himself as submissive with a streak of lustful deviance, which is perfect for this job). He complimented me, and I warned him how susceptible I was to flattery. He asked me, frankly, if I was the type to hold a man down and use him like a toy inside of my body. It wasn’t a confession, but I agreed to his fantasy. That was a healthy assumption, or at least an accurate one.

I told him if he ever fucked up on the job, I’d bind him to the bed and ride him until he didn’t like it. He told me that he liked to be used, and that I shouldn’t tempt him to forfeit a career so fast. This was simple flirtation, less exciting than when I was questioning my own faith in romance, but infinitely more comfortable too. I gave him advice, many of the same sage words I offered to Jungkook, and he took them all in. He nodded his head constantly to tell me he was listening, and I appreciated how respectful he was. It was clear to me that he was intelligent, that he would be able to learn on the job, that he knew what the job was all about, and that he could adjust to the job as it required him to change. He was cleared to work, in my eyes, but I didn’t want to break the flow of our natural conversation. 

I asked him how he ended up here. I noticed how gentle his voice was. His parents divorced when he was young, so he’s been around for a decade or so. He just wants easy money doing something he enjoys, and he doesn’t want to have to worry about the complexities of the government. Taxes. He’s enrolled in online classes. I asked him for his school’s contact information. Said I was interested. He flashed that beautiful smile, complied, and joked about how I probably already have enough saved up for a lifetime. Judging by what? The shape of my ass? The way I spoke? Funny, perhaps naive, but aren’t we all? My thoughts were many, and they wandered freely, but I was the veteran here. I was the one on top, so to speak. 

So as natural as I thought it might be for me to jack him off right there, it was he who was offering me something. A pleasant parting gift. But it was he who undressed me as well, immediately sinking his plump lips to the hilt of my semi-firm erection. His button nose nuzzled the virtually nonexistent darkness of my trimmed crotch, the wet and vocal sounds he made divine in nature. He rubbed my thighs and kept bobbing his head, eyes fixated on my every reaction. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, receiving like this, so I simply grasped the bed sheets as he let my phallus drag out of his warm mouth repeatedly. I grew hard fast. It seemed like he wasn’t a rookie, but he certainly had a desire to perform based on distance from intimacy.

I pumped his mouth full with no warning, my grunts announcing the impending flood. The feeling of his lower lip against my pulsating hilt had me bucking upward into his mouth; I thought the idea of grabbing him by his hair and pushing him down would stay unfulfilled until I did it, and he swallowed around me and pulled off when I slid him up a moment later. He coughed and smiled. I said sorry, that I didn’t know what came over me. He took it as a compliment, and I wasn’t sure if my unfiltered behavior was being welcomed into reality or if this was coincidentally similar to a praise, but I took a mental note of it. He told me I taste good, bowed after he got dressed, and returned to his room with only the security of knowing we connected to comfort him.


	11. Like Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimin recaps the homestead, where Yoongi is suffering, Seokjin is lovely, and Taehyung explains coincidence beside Jungkook’s silence. Jongin plans to make a name for himself; he won’t be unspoken of in Jimin’s world like Jackson was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conclusions are sweet, and dynamics continue to unfold.

When I went upstairs to report on Jongin’s splendid status, I ran into Yoongi. I was standing at the door, talking to his brother when he exited the bathroom and locked eyes with me. Swollen, red bags drooped beneath his absent gaze, and I struggled with a beating heart when he began to cry immediately. I left feeling regretful and moved up another floor. Seokjin was in his apartment with Hoseok; they were eating an early dinner, cross-legged in front of the living room coffee table. He invited me inside, and I kissed him, nuzzled his cheek. When we ate, I rested my head on his shoulder repeatedly, and held his hand too. He really was such a rock, even after all of the things I had made him watch. I started to wonder who this falling out was really between, and what it was about Yoongi that was such cruel, dark energy. There was so much passion between us, but I was really attracted to the dullness Seokjin’s stoic domestic bliss offered more than anything. I was still so in love with them, madly in love with both, but in dramatically different ways. Yoongi gave me light, but he never told me about the fire. Spitting on him felt like shaving off matted fur. I wish him kissing a girl was the real reason why I was so mad. Sadly, that didn’t feel true.

The three of us enjoyed the heavy meal and chatted for hours. Hoseok seemed so happy. Taehyung was finally working for us, now. Two new employees in forty-eight hours. Hoseok got a promotion at work. He can afford the apartment by himself. His smile is something I admire. He made a small handful of references to my career in a positive light. He wanted to visit me again, to be satiated so that he could keep working hard. Seokjin laughed, and he wasn’t uncomfortable. Was Yoongi compensating for something with all of that cuckold nonsense? I clung to Seokjin’s arm and after the sun went down, Hoseok got up to leave. I asked him if he had work the next day, and he said that he was simply tired. I invited him to stay the night. He said it wasn’t right for him to put himself into Seokjin’s home. But you’re best friends! I said that with a smile on my face, offering my own bed if Seokjin wasn’t open to the idea, but he was. He instantly was. He was so comfortable with the idea that he carried me into the bedroom. Everyone got washed up like it was a middle school sleepover. Pajamas all around, only now we were big boys, so they wore boxers, and I wore one of Seokjin’s shirts and nothing else. The heaven it was, to be in his bed, wearing his clothing, smelling him again.

It was cuddling all around. I made love with Seokjin while Hoseok laid beside us. He climbed on top of me, missionary, found his way inside. We swore to be quiet until the bed started creaking, and then the heavy breaths came naturally, the panting couldn’t be helped, the wet, slick sounds were just a part of the fun, and the moans were promised programming. I moaned so thunderously, and he filled me up without asking. I knew Hoseok had awaken halfway because I felt him rubbing the side of his calf against the sole of my foot gradually. He took advantage of the way my body rocked back and forth to creation friction between his favorite part of me and his simple leg. I enjoyed it. It was kinky, obviously, but it was so simple. The entire arrangement. The shamelessness. The fact that we could enjoy a meal with a family friend and then share a bed, and then he’d mount me like a man and act completely normal. He kept whispering to me, but it wasn’t dirty. No cock and ass, no slut and semen. He kept telling me he loved me. He called me beautiful, and when he was close, tight. 

The next morning Hoseok didn’t stay for breakfast, but he wasn’t distraught or anything. He was quite pleased, content, and he bowed deeply. I gave him a hug and he waved to Seokjin and made his way out. I watched Seokjin make scrambled eggs for himself, rubbing his shoulders as I tried to peek over on the tip of my toes, failing totally. I slid my hands along his torso and rocked back and forth when he seasoned the plate over the sink. I was simply happy. I sat on his lap and fed him the food he made. He rubbed my lower back while he chewed and moaned from the satisfactory taste. I love him so much. He asked me if I had spoken to Yoongi recently and I told him what happened the night prior. It seems like the longer I stay here, I bridge the days together more closely. My statements are longer and usually more convoluted. I don’t skip to the good bits anymore, everything is a continuation of the thing which came before it. Adulthood, the Beginning; this had to be something concrete. Regardless, he said that he hoped we made up soon. He told me he loved me and left a small mark on my neck, and I made him promise to always tell me the truth. He said he felt fine, that he was more than good, and I felt that he was telling the truth. I felt it deep down.

I went back downstairs and passed Jongin in the hallway. There was something peculiar about him, familiar almost. He walked past me and paced back toward his room, repeating the process at least once while I stood in the frame of Jungkook and Taehyung’s door. They had an open relationship. All business, though. That’s what I said when I started mine, too. They were a unique package deal. I wondered what would happen if someone requested one of them alone. That hardly mattered, though. What mattered was the fact that I watched Taehyung have a seizure the other night, and none of us really knew why. Not initially, at least. I stepped in, closed the door behind me, and asked Taehyung as he stumbled out of the shower, drying his hair and walking around boldly. He has a family history of epilepsy. Something in the poppers must have coincidentally triggered a difference in his brain which took advantage of the temporary vulnerability. That’s the scary thing about biological tragedies, like seizures and cancer. You tend to overlook and ignore all elements of statistical likelihood and focus only on emotional facts. A lot of people do get cancer, and the fact that literally any of millions of billions of cells in your body can just break its reproduction clock and overgrow is terrifying. The human brain is such a complex thing, and a single misfire of blind currents flowing like electricity in a wire can throw you into a physical fit that possibly ends your life.

Enough of that. I walked out the way I came in and saw Jongin one more time. I walked into my room, directly across the hallway, without thinking twice. He knocked on my door a minute later, and I let him in. He was in grey sweatpants and his black hair was all over the place. Just wanted to chill, he said, but as soon as he sat on my bed, he started talking. How did I do so well? What parts of his body should he accentuate? What do people usually ask for? What sorts of people usually come through? What’s their gender? Sex? Age? Height? Weight? Typical preferences? Have I ever been hit? Do I have an emergency button in my room? They were not as invasive or annoying as I’m making them sound. He is still graceful, polite, and respectful, but he’s certainly a lot to handle. A part of me was insecure. It was minor, or at least not enough to be a real source of anxiety. I was not emotionally burdened by the thought, but it was a thought I had. For some people, he and I were similar in all of the right ways and perfectly different. Maybe they’d look at him and then see perfection in me, but they could easily start on my fat ass, on my round face, on my high voice, and find fitness, physique, and melody in him. I know it’s just a matter of preference, that it’s a coincidence if nothing else, but I consider it all. I can’t afford to not have all of my bases covered. To at least be emotionally prepared.

He asks me if I’d like to go out to lunch with him. I pass, saying that I had already eaten. Even being rejected, he was humble. He looked sad, but defeated, not angry. I asked him about his time in China. He seemed hesitant to expand on his childhood. The details were vague, fuzzy, like a dream. Like he was speaking out loud about a dream he had, wherein the time on his watch always changed, the sky was unrealistically bright, and the weather was noisy. I asked if he was from north or south China and he hesitated, stopping a full two seconds before answering that Beijing was home. Could definitely be another language barrier. Maybe he’s nervous, given my position of power. Jungkook told me I’m the leader. I’m the smartest, most accomplished, and most experienced of the escorts. We, the people. The sex workers of tomorrow. Faded in, fucked out; come and gone. Prostitutes. Hookers. Good for nothing sluts. Porn stars in the making. I laughed, which hurt Jungkook’s feelings. A criminal can’t lead, a teenager can’t lead. Leaders are respected, cherished, admired. They have a lot of money, and go to fancy schools which their rich spouse or loaded parents pay for. I’m just a whore. I can’t be a leader.


	12. Confide in Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimin realizes something about his relationships with Yoongi, Namjoon, and with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jimin thinks he’s found the truth, which is cute, because I think he’s just lying to himself some more. Can’t stop now.

In my childhood home, one of the door frames was broken. It became normal to step over it, but we never had visitors out of shame. The fridge was always full but all of the food was expired. It was in the shadow of my tenth birthday that I felt the darkest and heaviest of weights. I truly was depressed. There was a hole where my heart should have been. I was neglected, abused, mistreated. My parents were two people who were never meant to raise a child. They admitted that themselves. The loneliness didn’t come until later, when a bug or a creepy crawler which once would have emphasized filth became nothing but life sharing my space. I welcomed anything with life of its own. My mother and father paid no attention to me, ignored many warning signs and were overprotective in all of the wrong ways. It always amazed me, how their egotistical focus was such a phenomenal stunt. They managed to delay my social growth in every single way while also managing to never truly guard me when I needed it. If it weren’t for their own self-absorbed conviction and false sense of rightness, they could have offered me the flexible support I needed. But they didn’t, and now I am left with nothing but the shards of a spiritual vase hoping to understand. This must make so much more sense, now. An epiphany even without all the details. I wonder how Yoongi would feel if he knew where I came from. Our revolutionary relationship was so forward-thinking that we never got a chance to talk about the past, or to relish the present. Nothing will ever be the same, and neither of us were even available to enjoy it while it lasted. He had big dreams, and I had bad ones.

I went up to his room last night; his little brother let me in. Told me Yoongi hasn’t been the same in a week or so. Sounds about right. Tell me, do my drama and mania just paint me a picture of the world around me? Or does it dictate as much as it seems to? I knocked so gently on his door, and he looked shocked to see me. He smiled but his bright eyes were hollow, the sadness washing over him once more as soon as he had to face me. There were a lot of things I never had the heart to tell him, like that I wasn’t a virgin when we met, that my body had been soiled before. Now, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I didn’t like the way he was acting. I gave him a hug, I let him cough a sob, and then I asked him what was wrong. Must have seemed quite the audacious question. He said he missed me and felt like our relationship was over. Kept saying how sorry he was and that he was absolutely selfish. But, I explained, we’re young. Our hearts are fickle. I could never forgive him for kissing some stranger, because he wasn’t the one I needed to forgive. This entire time, I’ve been dating a romantic projection, a cracked fantasy. I’d love to settle into his arms and seal the deal with a new beginning. I can’t guarantee I’ll move past everything, truly mature, and grow into that idea of us together again. I can’t guarantee anything, and that is always such a scary thing. He asked where we were at. He just wanted some closure. He wanted to know if we were friends or what. He wanted to know if we’d sleep together or talk at all, or if this was just the end. I couldn’t explain to him that he had a perfect illusion of me in his mind, too. That’s not something you can teach someone. They have to figure it out themselves. For once, I was honest. I told him that I didn’t know. I didn’t know if I’d come back tomorrow for hugs and kisses, if I’d have sex with him again, and tell him that I love him; I didn’t know if the thought of touching him would soon repulse me, and if I’d never voluntarily lay eyes upon him again. I didn’t know if I’d want it all or hate him dearly by sunset. 

This was the different love I was thinking about. Seokjin was a rock, but Yoongi was an ember. I am volatile enough, I don’t need someone else being such a loose cannon. Whether Yoongi truly was a crazy flame like me or not, he and our relationship invoked that feeling. An image of us together made me feel unsure and uncomfortable. I didn’t want to give him up, but I wanted to let him go too. I wanted to abuse him or be away from him, but the thought of him being with someone else crushed me. Maybe that was just denial. Reminiscing about desire again. Maybe I’m just still being selfish. Maybe I don’t know, and I can’t know, not for sure. But what I do know is that hedonism is promising, and that despite how serpentine my emotional intelligence was, my intuition was easy to read and simple to execute. I would have to start relying on my animal instinct, at times exclusively, in order to guide the development of my young years to safe and reliable places. He told me he loved me. I told him I felt the same way.

Laying on my bed in boxers and a tee shirt, I pretended to be a normal kid. It felt like depression again. I was frustrated, and that was it. Only frustrated and only frustrated of an absence, a dullness inside of me. I was frustrated because I knew I wanted to play a video game, but I didn’t know which one. I knew I wanted to write, but I had no idea where to start; all of my ideas were corny, campy, shit. I knew I wanted to play, listen, sing, but I couldn’t make my mind up. I lost excitement about the things which once populated my life. Now, if I wasn’t having sex or taking care of my body (work assets), I was doing this. Building personal philosophy. Dwelling. Bathing in passive anxiety. Creating uncomfortable confrontations. Tasting and feeling the wrinkly contours of dread. A phone call to disrupt the interrogations: Namjoon. I answered but didn’t speak. He did.

“I just came so fucking hard, thinking about you whipping my useless cunt with a riding crop.” My lips quivered, but they didn’t move. I had absolutely no right to pretend that I was disturbed. His voice was shaking, as if he were still attempting to steady his breath. I could tell. I knew the tone of a post-orgasm statement. It was absent. A fear of resource scarcity. Use the tool, clean it, and put it back in the shed. Only I wasn’t there to do it for him, it all happened in his mind. And I _was_ the tool. His words were more lewd, the images rougher, furthering his own submission. Why call me if it was all a silly obsession? I questioned a masculine evilness as I realized that maybe it wasn’t so masculine. This was a matter of sex. A competition, a survival instinct and natural invention. We live on a planet with many species. Ours, like others, has incorporated violence to persevere and thrive. We have taken arousal into consideration, and psychology struggles to define this, this fringe biological behavior. I struggle to define this. We all use somebody. We all get hurt by love. We all have our cross to bear. We all live within our own world. This wasn’t about Yoongi, or Namjoon. And neither were their thoughts. This was about me. The way I felt life was futile, the way I absolutely loathed sexuality. Perhaps this compulsive selfishness is universal and normalized. It’s necessary, and I’m the only one who hates it among the few who truly see it.

“Good boy.” I hung up. He’d think I was depriving him. He’d probably climax again. 

What was I to do with this information? What can I do? Pursue my own pleasure with a total disregard for the feelings of others? That would be difficult for me, on my temperamental own. Nothing else makes sense, though. Solidarity in our own singularity is a motif from birth to death. I hold the key to success. An understanding of the selfish human mind. I will control the powerful and trample the rest. The prowess of those who believe they bear honest compassion withers and makes them weak targets. Useless, in this grand scheme. 

I started crying. A familiar habit, but it felt like the first time in forever. This emptiness was haunting. As the night progressed, I started tearing myself apart about my body. About odd shapes and disgusting largeness. I thought about plastic surgery, vanity, and what it meant to be authentic. It isn’t a charitable act of temperance for me to hold back; I don’t stay away from the surgical knife for the sake of righteousness. If I were to be locked in a cabin for the rest of my life, away from society in every way, modifying my build or my face would be of no interest. This is clear proof that editing myself would be just for the sake of pleasing others, and although much of my pleasure comes from the ability to control others, it is the acknowledgement of my own individualism which should come first. I have never been one to seek validation in others, not now at least. This is all about me.


	13. Saint Jude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimin’s come to a dead end. Jackson’s back in town sooner than expected.

Everything looks new in twilight’s shadow. Dusk is such a scary time; it announces the inevitable arrival of night and affords darkness all of its risk. I was petrified of the absent of light as a child. I needed to be able to see everything, to determine what was a threat and what in my surroundings moved. My mother would tell me that the world at midnight is the same as the world at noon, only there is no light. But we are animals, predatory things, and we panic as a collective of creatures. The good hold up, the bad hunt, and the ugly shelter in place. Dawn has all of the same potential. Daytime can be just as terrible. You can die in the middle of the day. Get hit by a car on your lunch break. Shootouts happen during the day. Serial killers find their victims, scope them out before nightfall. But I fear night the most. There’s a comfort to chaos when you can see it coming. 

Taehyung was growing up fast. His body was pursuing the last of its testosterone as the musculature beneath his olive skin toughened. He hid his shyness and easily excitable demeanor with slick smiles and seductive glares. Jungkook saw him as an equal, then, and their relationship flourished. They handled customers together well. Jongin found them endearing. He was settling in alright. He was doing everything and doing it enough, but something felt rigid about him. Robotic. He was a left-brained person. He was great at learning things, about remembering requirements and retaining social skills, but executing them was another story. He stuttered and struggled to put emotion into his words when they were not his own.

I love meditation, now. Deep breaths, and it’s like you enter a trance so immediately. It’s comforting. It oppresses anger. You can’t always do it, though. You have to be alone. I don’t think nearly as much as I thought I would while I’m resting.

I considered going upstairs to see Yoongi yesterday, and then I questioned my intentions and stopped myself. There was a brief moment, removed from lust, where I thought about the sex, and his penis. I wondered what they meant to me. Seokjin came down anyway and asked me how I was. I told him I just felt lost, a bit empty. He understood, but he didn’t have the answers for me. He invited Hoseok over and we ate lunch in his attic apartment again. Seokjin mentioned that he was casually looking for other jobs. My heart sank but I acted normal. It’s hard for me to hide when I’m upset. We parted ways on a distant note and I let Hoseok get down on his hands and knees and kiss my lower legs in the lobby public bathroom. He waved goodbye again.

Namjoon texted me two hours ago. Said he was getting off by himself again. I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t. I wasn’t sure if he’d be my biggest surprise asset or the most petty nuisance in my life, so I shrugged off the annoyance and absentmindedly played the same game I’ve played for years. Boredom came fast. And now I’m laying on my bed with wet hair, a towel strategically covering my naked backside as if I were on a television show. I’m feeling directionless. This isn’t the way my story was supposed to turn out. There’s a grayness here, now. I’m stoic. Not progressing, not moving forward. I should go to school. I should find someone to take care of me, someone who doesn’t know anything about this. About me. I’ll be their perfect house-spouse, a flawless, sexually available partner. I could accommodate to a single person’s every need.

Jackson calls me on the phone and I jump back on my bed, thighs suddenly crossed. I answered and it was his voice, his sweet, raspy song, and his accent was thick, but he was speaking to me. Short phrases. Dramatic things. Telling me he loved me, expressing a random thankfulness, asking me how I was. I told him that I was great and that I missed him. He said he was around again. I was surprised. He said that he loves the area. The thought amused me. I asked if he was going to see me and he laughed. That’s why he came here. I put my black robe on and tossed the towel into the bathroom hamper, walking out to punch the security code Yoongi had told me into the back door. I let him in, but this time, he was alone. No escort, just a briefcase. I brought him back into my room and he stood in front of my bed and opened the metal case in his arms. Stacks of money, an encrusted watch, and a choker. It had his name on it. I closed it all and put it by my closet door, smiling up and over at him. He asked me if I liked it and I said that I did. He took me in his arms and kissed my lips, and I inhaled his scent while reciprocating.

He was naked in no time, and my round fingers held his entire body, touched his sides and caressed his front. I palmed at his back and looked up at him, and I dropped to my knees and stared at him with such awe, simply enjoying the sight, basking in the close warmth, the familiar scent, and I began to cry. He was alarmed but he picked me up and hugged me and asked me what was wrong. He was the last person I could talk to about this. In nature and in language. He rubbed my back and shushed me and I made it obvious, through the guilt on my weak face, that it wasn’t his fault. It had nothing to do with him, but I sobbed, and he held me. And he told me it was okay. I know that’s nothing remarkable. He didn’t have many things he could have said. But he told me it was okay. It’s okay. And I cried more, and my heart pounded against his chest, and I fell down again, or wanted to. I wanted to hug his thigh, I wanted to kiss him where he wanted it, but he held onto me. He wouldn’t let go. He wouldn’t let me ignore it. He wouldn’t let me drown myself in him. He wouldn’t let himself be used like that. He wouldn’t let me hurt myself like that.

I don’t know what it means to really learn something, but I think I learned something tonight. Life experience is all about opportunity. An opportunity to grow. No matter what happens to you, it’s just another chance. Another chance to get bigger, stronger, smarter. Rougher, harder. Tougher. And a relationship isn’t a reckoning; it isn’t a half or a third or any fraction of you. A relationship is an alliance of whichever sort. And the healthiest are consensual and mutual and acknowledged but all kinds exist. They exist between independent people. They know themselves so they ground themselves, and they care for themselves so they are capable, simply capable, of loving others. My image of a spoiled foreign playboy may have been improper and rude, or perhaps this was a physical coincidence, but I realized a gentleness then. How am I supposed to love someone if I don’t love myself? How am I supposed to build a life with someone else if I don’t have my own? If I can’t stop filling in the blanks, sealing the empty spaces with fantasies; if I can’t stop projecting my desires onto bodies, carcasses, then how will I ever really find someone to love me? Because if I don’t stop, I’ll never be able to truly look at someone. I’ll never find someone who is truly an individual to me. They’ll all be pieces of convenience. They work until they don’t, until I’m done with them. But true love shouldn’t be any of that, should it? All of this has been a failure, but I’ll learn from it. It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. It’s over and done with. So I’m leaving. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m leaving.


	14. On Adoration

It’s the basis of every magazine cover’s shimmering, glossy texture. Spotless and clean. Fingerprints can dull the sparkle, but the image remains untouched. It’s the reason prints go in and out of season, and why we wear form-fitting clothing to begin with. Sweatpants bring out the worst in me when I think about the condition of my curves, and what my body is being thought of. I’ve cut and colored my hair, acted and spoken in certain ways all for the sake of being appealing. I identify my favorite elements of something which I believe is unique, but nothing queer is inherently rebellious. It doesn’t matter who I love or who I have sex with when I pick out lengths and looks and attitudes which all conform to what is expected of me. A hegemonic masculinity; dominant sexual ideals, permitted aesthetics. Things of desire. Matters of lechery, intimate lust, never-ending affection. True romance. They’re all cut into different shapes and sizes, viewed through a lens and under the printing press of gender. Roles, hybrid anticipations. Small deviance does not free one from this bondage. There are a lot of reasons to be gay, because being straight and acting straight and acting manly are really just a matter of comfort. We navigate our sexuality from a stance of acceptable gender. We look for it endlessly. People identify as gay just to subvert the mainstream prototype. To alter their heteronormative relationship to women. And women fantasize about these men because it paints a portrait of acceptable masculinity as being less threatening. Less homicidal, less sexually violent. And who knows why I am the way I am on the inside, but I’ve dedicated my entire life to being one way on the outside just to pursue it. The constant love, the friendship to any degree. All I ever wanted was that attention, that approval. The love. I want to be adored.

It’s been a week since Jackson got out of my bed in the middle of the night. He said he had business to handle. He expressed remorse, but he had to go. His face said it all (he was incapable of lying, at least to me). I let him go because I knew he didn’t want to. And that would be the requirement for men to leave me. They’re not allowed to until they don’t want to, and then they must. To suck the life out of someone’s heart. That’s real intimacy.

I spent days in bed, feeling nothing, and then one night I drank a lot. With Jungkook and Taehyung. It was fun, I had fun. I’m a happy drunk. It was simple. I don’t remember what happened.

I cuddled with Seokjin the next day, and we went down to Yoongi’s apartment and all had lunch. They made squid and beef and chicken, but I didn’t touch any of it. I just ate pasta, cheese, and I drank three cans of soda. Yoongi smiled the entire time. He was just happy to have me back, or to have me near on a positive note.

I packed my bags a little each night. Kept them locked in my closet like I was trying to hide something. My personality became further splintered. I had sex with Yoongi and Seokjin together twice in seventy-two hours. I coached Jongin through a nervous breakdown. He said he missed his family but I knew that wasn’t it. He was incoherent. There was something very off, just a hunch, but I knew it. 

What is this life I keep dreaming about? Was it a myth, too? I couldn’t decipher reality from construct, energy from training wheels. I couldn’t talk to anyone about this. About this deconstruction. Haven’t people been talking about him? I know that people have been talking about Jongin. Maybe that’s why he was crying. Haven’t people been talking about him?

The house must have been a slick bargaining chip. The biggest, most thrilling orgasm of a gamble he’s ever felt. Yeah, well, I own a whorehouse. Yeah. Put it down. He put all his employees down. He put his two little brothers down. And he lost. He lost it all. Was this the end? Or was it only the confused beginning? Another beginning, a fucked up, convoluted start. I asked Yoongi who he lost it to while we were eating dinner, all five of us, cross-legged in the lobby. On the floor. The rest of the escorts walked out when they heard the news. Jongin included. He looked at me like the noodles piling out of plump lips were symbolic. I was over-eating to negate the anxiety. Better than starving myself, or dropping my appetite. I asked Seokjin why he thought Jongin just walked out like that. I thought we were closer? He asked me who Jongin was.

My cheeks grew warm. I sat by idly until Yoongi’s older brother came back, and I stood up and stepped toward him, and I yelled. About the children, about Jungkook and Taehyung, about myself. I was all about myself. I just wanted to be adored. He didn’t lose it, he sold it. I know he did. He made money off it. I could tell. A lot of money. He kept smiling. This is the evil man, the greedy human ego. I told him, how could you? Who was it? And he said it was a Chinese business prince. And I knew who it was immediately. Jackson Wang. Jackson Wang bought an illegal business this far away from his home just to be close to me, but when he came in later that night, he seemed cold and unassuming. Like I had never seen him before. 

Jackson cleaned house. He put a woman on the ground, a mistress among us who could more personally monitor progress with certain customers and social situations. This wasn’t to increase productivity, this was for the sake of our safety. Most of me believed him. She sent me to therapy. And I told you everything. That’s the end of it. And now you keep calling me all of these names. I told you, I don’t know a thing about myself. And you keep saying that I’m sad. But you keep saying it. I’m _sad._ I’m **sad.** Like, really sad. SAD. And I ask you what you mean by SAD. You’re hesitant to explain it to me. But you say, SAD. And I ask why, is it the childhood, is it my mother’s death, is it my relationship? And you said you don’t know, but I’m SAD. It stands for something. Well, it stands for a lot of things. So what is it? Beyond the Vicodin, what is it? And you ask me who knew Jongin, and I said, I knew Jongin. Why are you looking at me like you don’t believe me? Because Yoongi doesn’t remember Jongin, and Seokjin doesn’t remember him. And Jungkook never saw him, and Taehyung never saw the room, and now I’m crying, and you look only mildly concerned. And you tell me I made him up. SAD. And I ask if I was born SAD, and you can’t answer that. I just act SAD. You don’t know if I really am SAD.

Jackson came to see me, today. He didn’t touch me or look at me, he talked to you. And Yoongi came in, and he looked upset, but you didn’t let him look at the scar on my chest. That’s the end of it, I guess. Seokjin was calm. He kept saying that it was just an episode. I think I believe him. I’m not always like this. I didn’t use to be like this. He told me he was going to be there when I went home. That they brought everything home already. They had an apartment south of here. We were going to live together. And they would make money, and they would take care of me. And that was the grounding I needed. That was the adoration I needed all along. 


End file.
